Trapped By The Cold Billionaire Heir

Wren pushed open the heavy mahogany doors. The cold air conditioning from the hallway rushed over her bare arms, raising instant goosebumps on her skin. She stepped into the top-floor office of the Vance family headquarters.

Harold Vance slumped in his massive leather chair. His skin was the color of wet ash.

He lifted his head. His eyes were entirely bloodshot. He picked up a thick stack of papers and slammed it onto the glass coffee table. The sound cracked through the quiet room like a gunshot.

Wren walked closer. Her heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor. She stopped at the edge of the table and looked down. The Ainsworth Financial logo sat at the top of the page. Below it, the words "Nasdaq Delisting Warning" were printed in bold black ink.

Her lungs stopped working. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

Harold opened his mouth. His voice shook violently. He told her the funding was completely gone. The family trust would be liquidated in forty-eight hours if they didn't accept the Ainsworth terms.

Heat flared in Wren's chest. She felt the blood rushing to her ears. She opened her mouth and yelled that Wall Street short-selling was illegal. She reached into her purse for her phone to call her contact at the SEC.

Harold lunged forward. He grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug into her skin, cold and trembling. He told her it wasn't a buyout. Cornelius Ainsworth wanted a marriage. Between Wren and his heir, Pierce.

Wren jerked her arm back. She stumbled away from him. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Harold covered his face with both hands. He begged her to go to the dinner at Le Bernardin tonight. Just to meet them.

Wren turned her head. She looked out at the Manhattan skyline. The tall buildings looked like bars on a cage. Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. The humiliation burned in the back of her throat.

She walked back to the table. She grabbed the gold-embossed dinner invitation sitting next to the warning letter. She squeezed it in her fist. Her fingernails pierced the thick cardstock, digging into her palm. She told him she would go.

She shoved her apartment door open. The scent of her expensive vanilla perfume hit her face. She walked straight into her massive walk-in closet. She grabbed armfuls of silk dresses and cashmere sweaters and threw them onto the hardwood floor.

She dropped to her knees. She dug into the very back of the bottom drawer. She pulled out a faded, black leather jacket and a pair of torn fishnet tights. She stripped off her designer clothes and pulled the rough fabric over her skin.

She sat down at her vanity. She picked up a black eyeliner pencil. She pressed the tip against her eyelid so hard it snapped. She drew thick, dark circles around her eyes.

She grabbed a tube of dark purple lipstick and